


i came to your party dressed as a shadow (and you never knew, you never knew)

by Cerberusia



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Modern AU, Sexual Fantasy, Toys, Vibrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-07
Updated: 2013-03-07
Packaged: 2017-12-04 14:50:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/711943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerberusia/pseuds/Cerberusia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>He unzips it to peer inside —</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i><b>Oh</b>.</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>Yeah, that's worth keeping under the bed.</i>
</p>
<p>(For a prompt which requested Grantaire finding Enjolras' stash of sex toys).</p>
            </blockquote>





	i came to your party dressed as a shadow (and you never knew, you never knew)

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a kink meme prompt which requested Grantaire finding Enjolras' stash of sex toys. Title is from Piano's Magic's _I Came To Your Party Dressed As A Shadow_ , the musical arrangement of which I find fairly uninspiring, but the lyrics are some of the loveliest poetry I've yet read.

Why the fuck his iPod would be in Enjolras' room is beyond him. But apparently Jehan had picked it up when he left it at the cafe yesterday and somehow managed to leave it in Enjolras' room when he'd gone over there this morning and Enjolras hadn't taken it with him because he'd assumed (rightly) that he wouldn't be seeing Grantaire before the evening. So it's past three in the afternoon, both Enjolras and Combeferre are out at lectures or tutes or something, and Grantaire's just let himself into their flat with the spare key usually kept in a hanging basket, because they live in a nice enough place down the Marlborough Road that there isn't the automatic assumption that someone will smash it in a fit of drunken pique. Fucking Christ Church, he swears to god. Fucking PPEists, come to that (he ignores that Combeferre is in fact doing a PGCE in chemistry).

The flat is, of course, beautifully neat. Not to show-home standards, thank god, but there's no dirty dishes in the sink and the carpet looks like it gets a regular hoovering. He kind of wishes he'd taken his boots off at the door, but carries on anyway. He's been here once before, and vaguely remembers that _that_ door leads to the bathroom, _that_ one to the kitchen and _that's_ the hall closet, which leaves two doors for the bedrooms. Eeny, meeny, miny, mo...

He gets it first try. He's never actually seen the hallowed ground of Enjolras' room before, but it's pretty obvious when he looks at the shelves - all the biographies of famous French revolutionaries and the stack apparently centered on the riots of '68 _could_ conceivably belong to Combeferre, but the dearth of texts with titles like 'Histoire générale de l'enseignement et de l'éducation en France' (which he did once see Combeferre reading - god, why did he even remember that title when he can't remember whether his mother's birthday is the 7th or the 8th, god, talk about being a font of useless knowledge) suggests otherwise.

(Plus Grantaire recognises that shirt draped neatly over the back of the chair, but that's probably creepy, so let's just go with the choice of reading material).

The shiny blue iPod nano rests on the desk in plain sight, earphones wrapped neatly around its slightly battered case. Grantaire picks it up, feels its familiar weight in his hand, fingers finding the familiar dents and scratches, and slips it in his pocket. Now that he's in here he's curious to have a look around the flat when no-one's here, but he recognises that that probably crosses a line. He turns to leave, but misjudges the distance he is from the bed and manages to fall into the leg and bash his shins painfully on the side.

"Shitting _fuck_ ," he says loudly, stumbling back to sit in the desk chair - and notices the toiletries bag now peeking out from beneath the bed. Bit of a weird place to keep your shampoo, he thinks. But then that's not where he keeps it: toiletries are kept in the bathroom, which is why as of the get-together at this flat last term he knows what Enjolras' shampoo smells like (yes, it's creepy. No, he doesn't give a fuck, because knowing a) what that divine jasmine smell was from - a yellow bar of solid shampoo, apparently - and b) that Enjolras uses Lush products is worth it). So what's this? Apart from, y'know, definitely crossing a line. He kneels down to examine it, mindful of his aching shins. It's not completely full, but it is moderately heavy. He unzips it to peer inside —

_Oh_.

Yeah, that's worth keeping under the bed. He hesitates with his fingers on the zip: this is private, _incredibly_ private. But he just has to see - yeah, that's a buttplug alright, and next to it a vibrator - without a flared end, so maybe he uses it on his cock? He can't afford to start thinking about that now - and when he tilts the bag a bit he can see that the bottles beneath the toys are of lube and cleaner. Of course Enjolras is a responsible pervert.

Neither Enjolras nor Combeferre are expected back for another half hour at least, but he still feels like he might be walked in on at any moment, caught rifling through Enjolras' things. What if Enjolras himself came in, saw the bag in Grantaire's hands and - would he flush? Yes, though more with embarrassment or more with anger Grantaire couldn't say, and he's not keen to find out. But oh, imagining his face, pink-cheeked and pink-eared, red mouth telling Grantaire what a degenerate he is, how filthy, how could he have touched Enjolras' private things, things that had been _inside_ Enjolras —

Grantaire zips the bag closed and puts it back with one hand, the other scrubbing at his eyes. As much as the idea of jerking off in Enjolras' room (kneeling on his floor? Lying on his bed?) appeals to him, he just can't risk it right now. And god, wouldn't that be a sight for Enjolras to walk in on —

He doesn't remember the walk back to his own house in Cowley. He gets in, notes absently that both his housemates are out, and proceeds straight to his own room, barely closing the door before his cock is in his hand.

He jerks off there, still fully dressed, his back against the door. There he'd been, thinking Enjolras so pure and proper, probably didn't even have a sex drive, and all the time— _God_ , what he must look like with that plug up his arse, one hand tight around his cock as he runs the vibrator over his balls. How pretty he'd be, red mouth wet and open, panting, knees up around his ears as he tries to press the plug deeper, deeper —

In the interests of not wanting ash in his bed, Grantaire goes over to smoke out the window and further contemplate Enjolras' well-hidden perversion, this time without the overtones of frenzied lust. It's immaterial, of course: Enjolras has made it quite clear what he thinks of Grantaire. His interest isn't and will never be reciprocated. And that's fair, y'know, Grantaire wouldn't want to go out with himself either. But the imagining, ah, he always has his imagination. And if one touch to his shoulder and a couple of smiles two weeks into his first term have sustained his _thing_ (because honestly it's gone well beyond just fancying him) going on five terms now, the mental images from this dreamed up in his feverish imagination should last him - well, hopefully longer than this infatuation. You don't fancy people like this for more than three years max, right? There's some kind of science, a term that sounds like liminality but isn't. So Grantaire is halfway through at least.

He finishes his cigarette, stubs it out and drops in in the bushes. Yeah, he'll be fine.

**Author's Note:**

> In case anyone is wondering, I've set this in Oxford since that's what I know. They're all French students who met through the French Society: Enjolras is doing PPE, Combeferre is doing a PGCE in Chemistry and Grantaire is at the Ruskin. And although they don't appear here, Prouvaire is doing Classics and English, Joly is Medicine, Marius is Classics and German, Feuilly is either Geography or HistPol, Courfeyrac is probably Law and I'm still considering Bossuet and Bahorel. _Somebody's_ doing History, I'm sure of it...


End file.
